Trophy Husband (17 page)

“So I’m just going to head in and grab
another. After all, I have a date in, oh, about two hours. And
guess what? It’s Bachelor Number Four, thanks to you!” I point at
the camera. “You know the drill. You picked ‘em for me and I’m
doing the dirty work, going on the dates. So, in two hours, I’ll be
reporting for duty and tomorrow, I’ll report back so you can choose
who deserves a second date. So keep voting, keep sharing your
thoughts on the candidates. Because this isn’t just about me. This
is a communal effort, a collective Trophy Husband for all of
us.”

I salute the camera and give my usual
sign-off. Then Andy turns off the camera and I sigh heavily. It’s
getting harder for me to keep up the act, but I don’t want Andy to
know.

“How was it?”

He gives a silent thumbs up. He packs up,
staying quiet most of the time. I do my part, helping with the
microphone, but decide to ignore his noiselessness. I counter it
with chatter. “I’m exhausted.”

He gives me a harrumph.

“What should I talk to this guy about?”

“Don’t know,” he says curtly.

“You want to just add a ‘don’t care’ to the
end of that statement?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I mean, that’s kind of
what you meant, right?
Don’t know, don’t
care
?”

He stares at me for a second, then continues
packing his camera gear.

“What is eating you?”

“You know what it is.”

I do. The same thing that’s eating away at
Andy is what’s been eating away at me since that kiss with Chris on
Saturday night. Since then I’ve been going on the requisite dates
with the top five, and, as I predicted, the viewers voted for Chris
as one of the five. The dates are chaste, as they should be at this
point in a dating contest, and nothing has happened physically with
any of them. Chris is the only guy I’ve kissed and he’s the only
one I want to kiss. Even when I’m on other dates, my mind is on
him. So I have to wonder if Andy’s instincts are right.

I close my eyes, then press my thumb and
forefinger against the corner of my eyelids, squeezing them, trying
to find some sort of answer. But I don’t even know what the
question is and now my brain starts to hurt. I’m not in the mood
for heavy reflection.

So I say goodbye to Andy
and head to Your Other Office, trying to remember the name of the
Trophy Husband candidate I’m meeting there soon. Craig? No, Craig
was Monday’s date. Craig and I had pizza at lunchtime sitting by
the water. We grabbed slices at Martino’s, a New York style
pizzeria that uses the flimsiest paper plates possible. We walked a
few blocks to the water, our plates sagging in the middle, grease
threatening to spill out. We sat on the rocks just a few feet from
the Bay, looking at the gorgeous Golden Gate Bridge. There is no
more stunning bridge in the entire universe. I have lived in the
Bay Area for six years and have never once grown tired of our
rust-colored bridge. Its beauty always captures me, whether I’m
driving across it, watching it from the ferry, or gazing at it. The
Golden Gate Bridge
is
one of the wonders of the modern world. It is a
marvel.

But Craig disagreed. “That is such an ugly
bridge,” he remarked as we sat down on the rocks. I choked on my
pizza.

“What?” I said in between coughs.

“Man, if it were up to me I’d rip that
sucker down,” he said, casting a disdainful look toward the
bridge.

“You’re joking, right?”

He shook his head. “I’d make a sleek steel
bridge. None of this suspension shit.”

“Maybe you could tear down
the Sistine Chapel, slash
The
Nightwatch
, and see if you can get
Shakespeare banned from school curriculum too.”

Tuesday’s boy was a little
better, but still no prize. His name was Jared, he was a computer
repair guy, and a major fan of Chris’ show. But then all he did was
talk about
Let the Wookie
Win
. He told me he’d seen every episode
twice. He told me he had added Chris to his Twitter account, so he
got updates on Chris’ online “status” throughout the day. He was
vying to become one of Chris’ “Top Friends” on Facebook, and could
I do anything to help him achieve that goal?

I was already thinking of Chris the whole
time during the date. With those constant mentions, it was as if
Chris was running at a double-time loop in my brain.

As I walk into the coffee shop, I finally
remember the name of today’s date. Jean Paul Peter. I don’t know
his last name, but he has three first names. When he arrives, I
switch on the iCam. The cards are all on the table now, so I’m
going to share some of this date with the viewers. They’ll be happy
since Jean Paul Peter looks better than his picture. He’s tall and
built with lovely dark skin. He’s wearing jeans and a long sleeve
pullover, one that can’t help but accentuate his sculpted arms. His
hazel eyes are flecked with gold.

I stand up and shake his hand. “Pleasure to
meet you, McKenna.” Then he gestures to the counter. “May I get you
a coffee, latte, hot chocolate?”

At the rate I’m plowing through caffeine,
I’ll be immune to the stuff pretty soon. He gets a latte, I order
another coffee, and he carries them back to our chairs.

“I’m glad I made the cut,” Jean Paul Peter
begins.

“I’m glad you made the cut too, Jean Paul
Peter.”

He holds up a hand. “You can just call me
JP.”

I wipe my forehead in the mock “whew”
gesture. “Jean Paul Peter is a mouthful of a name.”

I spend the next thirty minutes chatting
with JP. I learn that JP grew up in Florida, played football in
high school, studied communications in college, and now at the ripe
old age of twenty-two, he works as an assistant for a sports
marketing firm. He’s perfect. Truly perfect. He would be a perfect
man for some woman.

“So JP, you’re in sports marketing. What do
you want to do with that?”

“Nothing really. I want to be a ski
instructor. I try to go every weekend. Leaning in and out, speeding
down the hill,” he says, moving his sturdy frame a bit from side to
side as if to demonstrate how to ski. “I would love to get a place
in Tahoe and set up camp there and spend all day on the slopes,
teaching people how to ski and skiing myself.”

He wants a place in Tahoe. That means he
wants me to get him a place in Tahoe. That’s what the Sugar Daddies
do for their ladies. They get them lakefront property, weekend
getaways, houses in Hawaii. Apparently, that’s what
Trophy-Husbands-to-be expect from their Sugar Mamas too.

I realize for the first time that two people
are playing the game. It’s not just me taking Dave and Steely Dan
Duran out for test drives, unbeknownst to them. Everything is on
the table now. The candidates know the game is on and they’re here
because they want a meal ticket. I’m no longer the only one with
requirements. They have their prerequisites too. JP wants a woman
with money, a woman who can set him up, a woman who can make him a
kept man so he can play on the slopes all day.

“So that’s why you’re in this contest,
huh?”

“Excuse me?”

I strip the chit-chattery veneer away as I
shut off the iCam. “To get a house in Tahoe, right? That’s why you
want to be a Trophy Husband?”

“Oh, that? Well, I like you, McKenna. I am
having an excellent time with you. And I just believe in trying new
things. And I thought this would be a fun way to meet someone.”

“Someone who can set you up with a house in
Tahoe?”

“Uh, well. You have always kind of said that
you were looking for a kept man. And frankly I wouldn’t mind being
kept. So I thought I’d give this a shot.”

“Right, of course.”

I feel a momentary sense of kinship for the
well-to-do older man who scouts out a trophy wife. Does he ever
wonder if his woman is using him, if she only loves him for his
money? Or maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe I need to be more like a man
and not care.

But I don’t feel that way. I do care. I do
care about someone. A lot.

And I have no idea what to do with these
feelings. The last time I felt this way, I was about to walk down
the aisle, and then went on to have my heart smashed.

* * *

The letter from Todd’s lawyer arrives this
afternoon. He is no longer contesting custody of the dog. I pump my
fist in victory, but something about this feels empty. Or maybe
it’s just that I feel that way right now.

Empty.

There’s a knock on my door. It’s ten
p.m.

These two facts should not occur
simultaneously.

Fortunately, I have a dog who knows her job.
Ms. Pac-Man emits a thunderous growl, then hits the repeat button
on her vocal cords as she races to the front door, lifting her
snout high in the air to express her displeasure at a late-night
houseguest.

I stay low on my couch and wait for Ms.
Pac-Man to stop. I make a mental note to buy her meat bones
tomorrow as a reward for being the best guard dog. She keeps
growling and then I hear a familiar voice over her practically
lion-like roars.

“McKenna, it’s Andy!”

I hop up from the couch, run downstairs, and
open the door. I expect him to be all disheveled, maybe with a cut
on his face or something. But he’s normal Andy, dressed in jeans
and a tee-shirt from Tokyo.

I hold my hands out. “Happy to see you, but
what the hell are you doing banging on my door at ten o’clock?”

“Can I come in?”

I gesture for him to enter. He does. I shut
the door.

“Diet Coke?”

He nods and follows me into the kitchen. I
open the fridge and hand him a cool, cold can. I get one for myself
too. He opens his, I open mine, and we stand there, like two
gunfighters, caffeinated weapons at our side, waiting to draw.

“You scared the shit out of me. What can I
do for you?”

“We have to talk.”

“Okay.”

“Look, I know I’ve been a jerk these last
few weeks. But the fact is, I think you’re better than all this
Trophy Husband stuff.”

I lean against the counter. “What do you
mean?”

“You don’t need a husband. You don’t even
need a boyfriend. You’re amazing as is. I love working with you,
and I love being your friend, and you’re beautiful and smart and
funny, and I hate watching you make a fool of yourself week after
week.”

“A fool?” I repeat. “I’m making a fool of
myself week after week?”

Andy swallows and nods hard. “Yes, you
are.”

I put my hands on my hips. “And just how am
I making a fool of myself?”

“Because you don’t even like these guys. I
watch the videos you send. I edit them. And I can tell you’re not
into them. The only time you ever seem interested is whenever you
talk about that Video Game Guy. Chris.”

I blush. It’s as if I’ve been caught.

“So why are you still doing this?”

“Because…” Suddenly the words aren’t coming
to me. Suddenly the reasons are escaping me. Suddenly I am trying
to tap into my well of anger and I am coming up dry. Maybe I have
no more fight left.

“See?” Andy says, softly this time. He puts
a hand on my shoulder. “You don’t even know why you’re doing this
anymore.” He reaches for my Diet Coke and hands it to me. “Take a
drink.”

I do as I’m told, enjoying a long, cold,
bubbly gulp.

“I’m doing this because I want to show that
women can do what men do. I want to even the score. I want to set
things right.”

“Right for who?”

“For everyone!”

“McKenna, it’s over with Todd. He doesn’t
care what you do. He doesn’t care if you prove him wrong. I doubt
Amber cares either.”

“It’s not even about them anymore. I’m just
trying to make a point,” I say a little petulantly. As I do, I
notice for the first time how ridiculous I sound.

“I just don’t think this is
a point worth making. Because this isn’t just a point, McKenna.
This is your life. It’s not a game. It’s not a show. It’s your
heart. You don’t need a Trophy Husband to prove Todd was a dick for
marrying Amber. Todd is a dick and nothing you ever do will
disprove that. He will be a dick for time immemorial. He will go to
his grave being a dick. The dude committed the ultimate crass and
cruel act. But you know what? You don’t have to find a husband on
the Internet to prove you are better than a cheating scum!
You
are
better
than a cheating scum.”

I run a hand through my hair, holding it
tight against my scalp.

“Do you really want to marry JP or Joshua?
Do you want to marry someone who wants to be a Trophy Husband?
Someone who wants you because it’s a fun game? Because you’re
loaded? Do you want someone who wants you for your money or for all
that makes you totally fucking rock star fashion hound
awesome?”

I don’t answer at first
because my instinct is to blow him off. To scoff. To hold up a hand
and say
whatever
.
But something about his questions have pierced their way through my
Teflon. They’ve hit me inside, where it matters.

I’ve always seen a Trophy Husband as, well,
to be honest – sort of like a little pet. Like a little pet I’d
keep and feed and water and allow out on certain occasions. Not a
person, not a lover, and maybe not even a friend. But that’s what I
really want. Someone who wants me for me. Someone who loves me for
me. Someone who wants to take a chance on all that I am.

I look back at Andy. His eyes are sharp and
focused, with so much passion in them. Passion as a friend. He’s
not here as my “employee.” He’s here, late at night, because he’s
my friend, and he cares. My throat hitches, because I’m so damn
lucky to have friends who knock sense into me late at night. I
didn’t know how badly I needed this until he said those words. But
I do. I do need this because I’m just doing the same thing I’ve
done the last several months. I’m firing bullets at bad guys, when
I should be tending to the wounds. Stitching up. Moving on.